He’s always blowing his nose, or asking me if I have a Kleenex. It drives me mad. Drove,” she amended.
There was a thoughtful pause. “You know, Freya, sometimes a person really needs a Kleenex and doesn’t have one. It doesn’t mean they’re a wimp.”
Freya slapped the table. “For me, it’s simply not sexy. End of story.” She glowered at her friend. “You’re too nice. Promise me you’ll never marry someone just because you feel sorry for him.”
Cat straightened her spine and fixed Freya with a portentous stare. “I’m not going to marry anyone,” she announced. “It’s official.”
“What do you mean?”
Cat wiped her mouth carefully with a paper napkin.
“I’ve made a policy decision. I’m not dating anymore. I’m not ‘putting out.’ I’m going to stop searching, even subconsciously, for Mr. Right. I’ve had enough of getting dressed up, and wondering if I smell nice, and taking an interest in his work, and waiting for that phone call. The fact is, I don’t need a man. ”
She looked so fierce that Freya nodded dumbly.
“I have a good job, enough money, my own apartment. A husband would only mess things up. Frankly, I’m not at all sure that the ideologies of marriage and feminism mesh. No. I have seen the future as a single woman—and it works.”
Freya couldn’t help feeling skeptical. Anyone could see that Cat was made to have a husband, a home, and a tribe of children to manage.
“What about love?” she asked.
“Pure make-believe. I see husbands and wives every day in my work, and the truth is they hate each other. The men beat up their wives, steal from them, cheat on them. I’ve got a case right now of a woman in her seventies who’s suing for divorce on the grounds of unfaithfulness.” Cat sighed.
“But sometimes you need a man, as an accessory. Say there’s a business dinner and you’re invited to bring your partner. What happens then?”
“You hire one.”
“What?”
“Sure. From an escort agency. My friend Rosa does it all the time. She says you can tell them exactly what to wear and how to behave. They don’t get drunk, or tell embarrassing stories about you. Afterwards, instead of listening to them complain about how bored they were, you pay them off and go home.” Cat looked at her triumphantly.
“What about kids? You love children.”
“There’s always the turkey baster.”
“Cat!”
“I’m serious. There’s an AI clinic right in the building where I work. All I have to do one day is get out of the elevator at the fifth floor instead of the ninth, and I could walk out pregnant.”
“Hmmm.” Freya tried to picture herself proud and free and single, an Amazon towering above the petty squabbles of the sex war.
“What about sex?” she said.
“You don’t need a husband for that,” Cat scoffed. “No. The fact is that women want romance, affection, fidelity, children, and an adult mind to engage with. Men want sex, unquestioning admiration, absolutely no responsibility, and a regular turnover. There’s no synergy.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am since I made this decision. Frankly, I’m amazed you haven’t commented on my new aura of serenity. Now let’s have some litchis. Then I must run.”
While Cat tried to attract the waitress’s attention, Freya stared thoughtfully at her friend—at her vibrant, expressive face, her creamy skin and curly mass of black hair, her voluptuous figure that scorned the cult of the body skeletal—and felt suddenly furious at the doltish male population of New York. Men should be falling over themselves to get hold of Cat.
“If you’ve given up dating,” Freya asked, “where were you on Friday when I needed you?”
“At my sister’s, babysitting. I gave Tonito his bottle and sang him a song, then I had two vodka martinis and reheated spaghetti all’amatriciana , watched When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time, and fell asleep on the
There was a thoughtful pause. “You know, Freya, sometimes a person really needs a Kleenex and doesn’t have one. It doesn’t mean they’re a wimp.”
Freya slapped the table. “For me, it’s simply not sexy. End of story.” She glowered at her friend. “You’re too nice. Promise me you’ll never marry someone just because you feel sorry for him.”
Cat straightened her spine and fixed Freya with a portentous stare. “I’m not going to marry anyone,” she announced. “It’s official.”
“What do you mean?”
Cat wiped her mouth carefully with a paper napkin.
“I’ve made a policy decision. I’m not dating anymore. I’m not ‘putting out.’ I’m going to stop searching, even subconsciously, for Mr. Right. I’ve had enough of getting dressed up, and wondering if I smell nice, and taking an interest in his work, and waiting for that phone call. The fact is, I don’t need a man. ”
She looked so fierce that Freya nodded dumbly.
“I have a good job, enough money, my own apartment. A husband would only mess things up. Frankly, I’m not at all sure that the ideologies of marriage and feminism mesh. No. I have seen the future as a single woman—and it works.”
Freya couldn’t help feeling skeptical. Anyone could see that Cat was made to have a husband, a home, and a tribe of children to manage.
“What about love?” she asked.
“Pure make-believe. I see husbands and wives every day in my work, and the truth is they hate each other. The men beat up their wives, steal from them, cheat on them. I’ve got a case right now of a woman in her seventies who’s suing for divorce on the grounds of unfaithfulness.” Cat sighed.
“But sometimes you need a man, as an accessory. Say there’s a business dinner and you’re invited to bring your partner. What happens then?”
“You hire one.”
“What?”
“Sure. From an escort agency. My friend Rosa does it all the time. She says you can tell them exactly what to wear and how to behave. They don’t get drunk, or tell embarrassing stories about you. Afterwards, instead of listening to them complain about how bored they were, you pay them off and go home.” Cat looked at her triumphantly.
“What about kids? You love children.”
“There’s always the turkey baster.”
“Cat!”
“I’m serious. There’s an AI clinic right in the building where I work. All I have to do one day is get out of the elevator at the fifth floor instead of the ninth, and I could walk out pregnant.”
“Hmmm.” Freya tried to picture herself proud and free and single, an Amazon towering above the petty squabbles of the sex war.
“What about sex?” she said.
“You don’t need a husband for that,” Cat scoffed. “No. The fact is that women want romance, affection, fidelity, children, and an adult mind to engage with. Men want sex, unquestioning admiration, absolutely no responsibility, and a regular turnover. There’s no synergy.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am since I made this decision. Frankly, I’m amazed you haven’t commented on my new aura of serenity. Now let’s have some litchis. Then I must run.”
While Cat tried to attract the waitress’s attention, Freya stared thoughtfully at her friend—at her vibrant, expressive face, her creamy skin and curly mass of black hair, her voluptuous figure that scorned the cult of the body skeletal—and felt suddenly furious at the doltish male population of New York. Men should be falling over themselves to get hold of Cat.
“If you’ve given up dating,” Freya asked, “where were you on Friday when I needed you?”
“At my sister’s, babysitting. I gave Tonito his bottle and sang him a song, then I had two vodka martinis and reheated spaghetti all’amatriciana , watched When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time, and fell asleep on the
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